God, he couldn’t stand men like this. With heads inflated and full of arrogant bravado.
He rolls his eyes, the motion thankfully obscured by the cover of darkness before dropping his stance and stepping out into the light. His head held up high despite his shorter stature. The moonlight illuminated whatever metal that hadn’t been covered up by his tousled clothing. A metal hand with dangerous claws comes up to brush aside a loose strand of hair. Cat like pupils flick over Speedwagon once again.
“And I can’t guarantee you won’t find one of your cronies dead in a ditch.”, he says, tugging his hoodie up. The threat was unneeded but he wanted to let the other man know that if he pushed, he was going to push back twice as hard.
He was so, so tired. He was hungry and he hadn’t been able to charge himself in at least a week and it was getting to him. He gives Speedwagon one last look before scoffing.
“Whatever. I’m outta here, man. I’m done wastin’ my fuckin’ time.”, is all he says before shoving his hands in his pockets and stomping down the street.
A soft huffed chuckle escaped his mouth. It was not that he didn’t care about most of the men working under his orders, because he genuinely did (even if the bond shared was that of comradeship and not a fully fleshed friendship − a sense of community, if you will). No. It all had to do with the fact that threats of that kind were so common in this place that they had become rather normal. Of course, they were a very real danger when thrown around most of times. No one would even think of threatening a criminal from Ogre Street, especially those working for Speedwagon, unless they had the means to back those threats (or unless they were just some random punks out of their minds and pushing their luck too far). In the end, death loomed over the shoulders of every single inhabitant of that place, in so many ways, striking often and claiming new victims. Some of those times much closer than others to the point it really had become part of the everyday there. Goons and all other kinds of criminals, regardless of their ranks and positions, dying after a crime −or a fight, or even a round of gambling− had gone wrong for them was just part of that. At this point, one more threat being spat at him or his men was akin in some way to hearing something like the weather report.
Whatever. By that point, Robert was ready to take his leave, too. He was supposed to catch up with his mates for some drinks that night in one of the seedy pubs around the area and it was getting late. However, before he could even allow himself to wonder if those two were already there, Speedwagon caught glimpse of a rather strange sight…
“−the hell…?” He muttered; a puzzled expression took over his face as he saw what appeared to be… shiny claws protruding from the young man’s hands. Rather than going for his trusty knife, the blond went straight for his gun. With a swift motion, he pulled his weapon out of the confines of his waistcoat, and aimed at the stranger.
“Stop right there!” He ordered with a firm voice. Oh, yes. He was well aware of how dangerous this move he was pulling could be for him, but he had no other real option at the time. After the chaos Dio had unleashed recently around the Windknight’s Lot area, and the high possibility that some of his zombies had been left behind to continue with their rampage, the hamon group had agreed back then, after Dio’s defeat, to step in if they ever witnessed anything ‘off’ going on, no matter how insignificant or even ‘unrelated’ it could be. They couldn’t afford to risk the chance of letting any of those zombies −or any other ‘creations’ Dio could have left behind him− roam around freely to do as they pleased and kill even more innocent people than they already did.